


Rendition

by penny



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Mindfuck, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penny/pseuds/penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drace crosses to the table and removes her helm to more closely study the sketch. "The resemblance to the late Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca is striking. No wonder she is the leader." She sets the sketch down and meets Vayne's eyes. "Or at least the figurehead. You intend to return her?"</p><p>Vayne narrows his eyes. "Why would you think that?"</p><p>"Because there is a <em>best</em> Judge Magister to help you." She can already feel a faint tingle of anticipation. There are few things Bergan would recommend her for above all others. All have to do with her ability to bend peoples' will. The power is thrilling. She will gladly focus on that instead of Vayne's schemes, because there is no way to refuse him. She serves Archadia, and Vayne's taming of Dalmasca is Archadia's will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rendition

**Author's Note:**

> Sensory deprivation and mindfuckery used to "correct" a political prisoner's thinking. And a whole lot of politicking.

At times, it seems Lord Vayne has the fortune of some legendary hero. King Raithwall, perhaps, except the Dynast-King accomplished great and noble things. Though if Vayne's luck holds, his achievements will keep pace with his ambitions, and he will gain the power to dictate what is written about him. Archades likes its gossip, but little of it is committed to paper, and over the years, Vayne has become quite skilled at controlling what is said about him. He is still reviled -- he holds little favor with the Senate, and its members are also skilled at controlling information -- but bit by bit, he is gaining public favor. There is less and less talk about his elder brothers, the blood on his hands, and more and more talk about how charismatic he is, how he is not willing to ask anything of his subordinates he would not do himself.

Word of Vayne's attitude towards Lord Larsa is conspicuously absent from the current gossip. It worries Drace. There used to be talk about how much Lord Vayne adores his younger brother. And there used to be a time when Drace believed Lord Larsa safe from his brother's ambitions.

It is for Lord Larsa's continued safety that she sheds her armor twice a month to spend the day in the districts to collect gossip by earning chops. She focuses on Trant, where she can gather the news passing between Old Archades and the Imperial City, but all of the districts have their specialties. In Trant, she first hears of Ghis's treachery -- they say one of the Judge Magisters went mad, that we lost the Eighth Fleet -- and in Rienna where she hears of Vayne's heroics -- we would have lost the _Shiva_ , too, if not for Lord Vayne's quick actions; the Senate should praise him instead of summoning him back to Archades -- and in Nibasse where she gets an inkling of Vayne's response to Ghis's actions -- that Judge Magister, the one truly responsible for the loss of the Eighth Fleet they say he was in league with the Dalmascans.

There will be no salvaging Ghis's reputation. Even if Drace were so inclined, the rumors are too numerous. Any attempt to counter them would be seen as an obvious ploy by his supporters. Drace does not want her face known for that. Better to play the woman constantly on the cusp of earning another Sandalwood Chop. Best to save her additions to the rumor-mill for managing Lord Larsa's reputation. He will need it soon.

Gabranth is the only one who knows of her excursions. He sometimes meets her at one of the magicks shops in Molberry to add to her collected gossip or warn her of changes in guards so she can sneak back to her quarters undetected. "Lord Vayne returns from Rabanastre tonight," he murmurs as they examine some low-level green spells together. "Bergan is looking for you to prepare you for an audience."

"Are you saying it would be wise to cut my day short?"

"He will inquire about your whereabouts." Gabranth shifts. "There is an inn in Rienna I favor, the Seventh Chop. My former name is on the register for this morning."

"I appreciate your aid." She turns to him and smiles. "But I believe I can handle Bergan and preserve your reputation."

Gabranth frowns, a mere twitch of his lips, but she has learned to read all of his expressions. She laughs, softly, and because she can -- while they are always Judge Magisters, they can take small liberties when they play civilians -- she reaches up to brush her knuckles against his cheek. "Perhaps next time, my name will be on the register."

His expression softens, the change as subtle as his frown. "Perhaps." He turns to exit the shop.

Drace is not quite quick enough to escape the shopkeeper. By the time she extracts herself and reaches the street, Gabranth is already at the corner. He does not look back.

* * *

She likes to think she is not as cunning as most of the other Judges, but one does not rise through the ranks without developing strong political skills. Instead of returning to her quarters, she dons her armor and goes to one of the lesser-used practice grounds. The guard in charge of it is a young man she has caught drunk at his post on three separate occasions, and he is appropriately terrified of her reporting him. "I have been here all morning." Hefting her mace is, perhaps, a little much, but it has been a day for taking small pleasures.

"S-since sunrise, Judge Drace."

She nods and strides past him, taking extra care so her armor clanks loudly, her last simple pleasure for the day. Well, her second to last simple pleasure. It is easy, and comforting, to lose herself in her forms. The practice is necessary to maintain her skill, and it is also enjoyable. And it is one of the few things she can take honest and obvious pleasure in.

Bergan finds her an hour into her practice. She sees him take position near the entrance. He waits for her to acknowledge him, which she does by lowering her mace and half-bowing. "Have you come for a match?"

He starts towards her. "Not today, Drace, though it has been too long since I've faced your maces. I fear I am out of practice."

"As I am out of practice against your sword."

He chuckles. "Then perhaps this time next week?"

"If it pleases you."

"It will."

She waits, then decides it does not matter if breaking the silence first is more to Bergan's advantage. She has little patience for coy games. That fact is well known amongst her comrades. If it makes her predictable, so be it.

She smiles, wolf sharp, and makes sure Bergan can hear it in her voice. "Since you have not come to spar with me, I assume there is another reason for your presence?"

"The guard says you have been here since sunrise."

She does not answer. If Bergan is looking for a lie, she will only allow him the guard's. It would end her hold over the man, but she is willing to risk it.

"So you have not heard the latest news."

"Forgive me, but I came here to escape the news, at least until actual news overtakes speculation in the reports. Has it?"

He gestures, palms up, and instead of answering, says, "Ghis's actions are surprising."

She inclines her head. "Yes." Ghis is -- was -- no admirer of Vayne's, but not admiring him a far step from treason.

"Lord Vayne returns from Rabanastre tonight. He will summon you."

"I will be available." She waits a beat. "What time can I expect his summons?"

"Seventh hour."

Bergan is not normally so open with her. She should be wary, though perhaps it is what Bergan wishes of her. He is almost as cunning as Lord Vayne.

"You are wondering if you should trust what I've said."

Drace holds in her sigh. He is also almost as skilled as Lord Vayne at reading people. Of course he would suspect what she is thinking. "We are both Judge Magisters, and while we quite often disagree, one thing I do not doubt of you, Bergan, is your loyalty to Archadia." To Vayne, but her loyalty to Archadia manifests as devotion to Lord Larsa. She can hardly call him on the distinction.

He inclines his head and steps back. "Nor do I doubt yours. I raise the point because I am here on behalf of Archadia. Lord Vayne has an...interesting prisoner in his possession, one that you are uniquely qualified to handle. I wish for you to be prepared, Drace, so Lord Vayne feels comfortable handing her over to your care."

"Her?"

Bergan bows. "I will leave you to your practice."

* * *

She cuts her practice short and seeks out news. Perhaps Bergan intended for her curiosity to get the better of her, because it is suspiciously easy to find actual news, not just speculation. A former Dalmascan Knight had cut a deal with Ghis to spare the life of the leader of the Dalmascan Resistance.

Less clear is what Ghis hoped for in return for his promise to spare the young woman, but Drace knows enough about Vayne's ambitions to know it has something to do with nethicite. Nothing else would cause Vayne to discredit Ghis in such a fashion. Judge Magisters are usually either killed quietly or celebrated as fallen heroes, not maligned as traitors.

She will have more time to sort out the threads of Ghis's betrayal later, when the information is not hidden beneath so much passionate rhetoric. Now, she must focus on what will best prepare her to face Vayne. Bergan had said _she's_ uniquely qualified to handle Lord Vayne's interesting prisoner. Why her over all the other Judge Magisters?

The answer is buried in a crew report from the _Shiva_. The shorthand note reads _Second Shift - Accepted prisoner transferred from Leviathan, hume female, approximately 20, matches description of Dalmascan Resistance leader provided by Lord Vayne Carudas Solidor. Escorted to maximum security holding cell._

So, Vayne wishes to bend this young woman to his will. Drace has to admire Bergan's maneuvering. She is "uniquely qualified" to break the woman without leaving a physical mark.

Just as promised, Vayne's summons comes at the seventh hour. Bergan is the one who fetches her, and he leads her to the Judge Magister's prison, the one outside of Imperial jurisdiction. "Lord Vayne is taking no chances with his interesting prisoner," she says.

"Lord Vayne believes he is taking a great chance entrusting her to you." Bergan leads her down to the lowest level.

"And what chance are you taking recommending me for this task?"

"Your tongue is too sharp, Drace." He unlocks the door to one of the guard rooms and motions her in.

Vayne is waiting for her with Gabranth standing guard. "Judge Drace." He smiles, a charming politician's smile. "I am assured you are the best Judge Magister to help me."

There is a sketch of a woman on the table, a young hume, approximately twenty, her expression haughty. No, hateful. "I saw the crew report of the _Shiva_. Is this your prisoner?"

"Ah, you are refreshingly straightforward." Vayne chuckles. "Yes. My agents have confirmed she is the leader of the Dalmascan Resistance."

Drace crosses to the table and removes her helm to more closely study the sketch. "The resemblance to the late Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca is striking. No wonder she is the leader." She sets the sketch down and meets Vayne's eyes. "Or at least the figurehead. You intend to return her?"

Vayne narrows his eyes. "Why would you think that?"

"Because there is a _best_ Judge Magister to help you." She can already feel a faint tingle of anticipation. There are few things Bergan would recommend her for above all others. All have to do with her ability to bend peoples' will. The power is thrilling. She will gladly focus on that instead of Vayne's schemes, because there is no way to refuse him. She serves Archadia, and Vayne's taming of Dalmasca is Archadia's will.

"So there is." Vayne moves to stand in front of her. "Tell me how you can break her without marring her fair," his fingers dip to the sketch on the table and trace the curve of the woman's cheek, "fair skin."

* * *

The young woman is already in the isolation cell, and the guards -- the cadre Drace favors for this work -- have already prepared the fluid and nutrient potions required to keep the prisoner physically healthy. Vayne and Bergan accompany her to the workroom outside the isolation cell. She ignores them the best she can as she examines everything the guards have prepared, but Vayne is a viper, and she can _feel_ the fascination in his gaze as he watches her take stock.

"Is she conscious?" she asks the captain, shifting so she can keep Vayne in her field of vision.

"Conscious and feisty." The captain is wearing his helm, but his voice is warm, and Drace has worked with him enough to know he is grinning. "She's cursing some poor sap named Vossler."

Vossler. The former Dalmascan Knight who approached Ghis. So, apparently the young woman learned he betrayed her. Drace smiles, thin and tight. She can use that. "Anything else?"

"She's noticed she's under Silence. Also..." He shifts and tilts his head. From the angle he seems to be staring at Vayne and Bergan.

"You are to report everything you observe," Drace snaps. She suspects she knows the cause of his hesitation, but it does not excuse him.

He straightens up, and sure enough, he says, "Also, she keeps saying she is Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and..." He shifts again, turning squarely to Vayne this time. "She demands to speak to you, my lord."

"Does she?" There is open amusement in Vayne's expression, his delight fitting for a cat toying with a mouse. "It seems you have quite a task, Judge Drace."

"I shall accomplish it quickly, my lord."

"Oh." Vayne's gaze slides to the table where the potions and the twelve-hour candles she uses to keep track of time are neatly arranged. "Take all the time you want, Judge Drace." There's something hot and complicated in his eyes when he looks back to her, and Drace is struck by the sudden fear he knows _exactly_ why she excels at this. "Poor Amalia is very confused. I would rather you spend a little more time taking _extra_ care with her so I do not have to try her for impersonating a royal heir."

"Such a crime is unforgivable," Drace murmurs. As is the crime of torturing one with royal blood. No. She pushes all suspicion aside. She cannot afford the distraction. "I will ensure your generosity is not wasted."

* * *

The isolation cell is the only one on the floor, cut off from the workroom by a narrow corridor. The only sounds and lights to reaches the prisoner are what the guards allow. Drace sheds her armor, arranging it carefully on the stand outside the first door. It won't do to have her work ruined because the clank of her armor gives the prisoner something to latch on to. And the presence of her armor on the stand serves another purpose. It marks the isolation cell as in use, informs the guards she will not tolerate any interruption beyond an emergency summons from the Emperor himself.

Drace settles down in the narrow corridor outside the isolation cell. One of the twelve-hour candles is burning near the door to the workroom, the flame faint and not visible to the prisoner, even when Drace opens the small observation flap so she can hear the prisoner.

"...traitor, Vossler!" The prisoner's voice is already ragged from yelling, and her breathing is heavy. "I will cut out your heart and leave your bones to bleach in the Estersand! Do you hear me, Vossler?"

She carries on for three hours before her voice gives out. Drace gives her another half hour, then reaches for one of the nutrient potions she brought in with her. Drace opens the small flap at the bottom of the door, making sure to make plenty of noise.

If the prisoner is familiar with the Accords -- and since she is impersonating a royal heir, Drace is confident she knows them -- she will expect to receive rations every twelve hours. That gives Drace power over her perception of time. It's a wet, hot power, one that makes her nerves sing, though her hands are steady as she sets the bottle inside the cell.

"Who's there?"

Drace shuts the flap with a sharp clap. The prisoner scrabbles towards the door. There's a dull thud, the sound of the potion bottle rolling away, and then the careful sounds of the prisoner feeling for it.

"I know you're still out there. I am Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and demand to see Vayne Carudas Solidor." Her voice is a faint rasp, barely audible, but there is still a commanding note there. Vossler trained his would-be queen well.

Drace remains silent. The prisoner drinks, then throws the bottle against the door. The bottle does not shatter -- they are made to be durable -- and the prisoner curses. She's quiet for a few minutes, then says, "Release me."

Drace shifts and rests her head against the door. The metal is cool against the back of her skull and shoulders. It is a welcome contrast to the warmth radiating from her core.

She slides another potion into the cell when her candle is in its last half hour. The prisoner demands to speak to Vayne again, and again, Drace snaps the flap shut with a loud snap. She also closes the observation flap, and rises, stretching the kinks out of her shoulders as she approaches the door to the workroom. The clock candle sputters out. Drace opens the door.

The workroom is dimly lit, but Drace still has to spend a moment adjusting to what she perceives as brightness.

"How does our prisoner fare?"

Drace stiffens. "Lord Vayne. I did not expect you."

"Obviously."

She blinks, _wills_ things into focus. The workbench has been set with a hot meal, and Vayne is pouring a glass of rich red wine. "What is this?"

"I've pulled rank on your captain."

"Obviously." It's reckless, but the word tumbles out before she can think. She bows her head. "Forgive me, my lord. I am..." There is no way to finish the sentence without admitting weakness.

"Hungry?" Vayne offers. The twist of his smile makes it obscene.

One of the dishes is the onion soup she favors, the broth rich and spicy. The smell of it makes her mouth water. "Yes."

"Join me."

"It is tempting, my lord." Quite tempting. There is also cockatrice. "But I must refuse. I came only to use the facilities and eat quick rations. This is a delicate time. I do not wish to miss the best opportunity to influence her."

"Very well. In this, I bow to your needs." Vayne raises his glass in a salute and drinks deeply. "Thought I do have a request I will not let you refuse so easily."

Vayne's presence has banished the pleasant strum of power down her spine, but the memory of it is enough to absorb the dread pooling in her stomach. "Yes?"

"I wish to observe you work."

She can, technically, refuse. This prison is outside of Imperial control. But it would be foolish to deny him. The Judge Magisters serve House Solidor. "As long you are prepared, I have no objection."

"Prepared?"

"This," she picks up one of the twelve-hour candles, "will be the only light. You must be silent once I open the observation flap. Whatever questions you have about my methods must wait until we're back here."

There's a challenge in Vayne's smile. Drace does not rise to it. Instead, she says, "I will give the order to have the meal removed." She bows. "Excuse me, my lord."

* * *

She is acutely aware of Vayne sitting next to her. He had agreed to all of her conditions -- he had even given a believably honest answer when she asked why he wanted to observe her work: "Bergan speaks highly of your skill, and if there is a way to reliably break prisoners like Amalia, I want that power." -- and had even agreed to a handsign to communicate a desire to leave, not that either of them expect he'll use it. Vayne only rises to challenges he is confident he will master.

Now he sits motionless and silent beside her, but she can _feel_ him. The sensation is like ants beneath her clothes, hot and itchy. It is neither arousal nor fear, but it feels too similar to both for her liking.

Inside the cell, Amalia mutters, "I am Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca." She says the name slowly. There's a faint scraping sound, like she's tracing something on the stone floor. The name, most likely. Drace has observed it in other prisoners.

Drace turns, quietly, and hunkers down near the observation hole. It may not be the perfect time to nudge the prisoner, but she needs to banish the effect Vayne's presence has on her. Focusing on her task should help. "Amalia," she whispers, smoothing out her clipped Archadian accent to something more Dalmascan. The prisoner's voice is higher than hers, but not out of Drace's range. She manages a close match.

The prisoner inhales sharply. "Ashelia."

"No. _Amalia._ That knight has ruined you."

"Vossler!" Her voice trembles.

"Remember your first meeting. He said you were a ghost."

"No. I was a child. My father knighted him. My father, the King of Dalmasca!" More scraping, like she's rising to her feet. "You're just some Archadian bitch trying to change things in my head."

Drace chuckles. Her nerves are normal now, the odd not-arousal-not-fear itch gone from her skin. As inviting as it is, she does not allow her body to slide into low-level arousal, not with Vayne here. "I may be a bitch, but I'm you, Amalia, the part of you that knows Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca is dead."

"No!" A hollow thud, knuckles on stone. Drace knows the sound well.

Drace leans back. Vayne has moved. He's kneeling behind her now. Drace startles when he places his hand on her hip, thumb dipping down to the crease of her thigh. That damned itch returns, cold now instead of hot. She covers the observation hole with one hand. "What are you doing?" she asks, her voice low.

"It is the only way I can hear." His breath is hot on her ear, and the prickle of her skin flips to white hot. "Allow me this." His fingers tighten on her hip. "Hold back nothing."

There's something raw in his voice. She has been fighting her own urges -- the power she has over the prisoner's perception is thrilling, as is the clash of their wills -- but Vayne's voice rips through her control. She cannot ignore the tremor down her spine, the way the prisoner's ragged breathing makes her own breath hitch, the liquid warmth uncurling in her cunt. If she's not careful, she'll undo herself as she reshapes the prisoner's mind.

Vayne places his other hand over and slides it to expose the observation hole. The stone scrapes against her palm, rough and chilly.

Drace takes a steadying breath. No. She will only deliver Amalia; Amalia cured of her belief that she is the heir to Dalmasca's throne. Drace...she is Lord Larsa Ferrinas Solidor's servant, _his_ Judge Magister. She cannot allow Vayne any hold over her.

She leans forward. Vayne moves with her, his chest pressed against her back. The heat of his skin sears through her cotton shift. She does not like how raw and open it makes her feel.

The prisoner is whispering something else now. Drace strains to hear. "Rasler...love you."

"How touching." Vayne's voice is so low, Drace wonders if she's imagining it, it and the wet wash of heat sweeping across the shell of her ear.

She manages to still her shudder. Something catches in the back of her throat. She must push through this, ignore her desires, ignore _Vayne_.

"You are Amalia."

"Get out of my head! You're not real."

"You're seeing ghosts." Drace lowers her voice, forces a regal note into it. "Do you see me, Amalia? _I_ am Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, dead from my own hand. _You_ are a nomad from the Giza Plains."

"No. No no no no! I'm..." Silence. "I'm Ashe."

Drace shifts. Vayne allows her to lean back. He remains pressed against her, and she cannot turn to see the twelve-hour candle.

Vayne's breath is heavy on her neck. She is nearly in his lap, and unlike her, he is not denying his body's urges. It should not be surprising he finds this arousing. Vayne enjoys power, and this is a new application for him. A pity she cannot use this against him.

Vayne leans in and presses his lips against her neck. "Break her."

Drace covers the observation hole again. "Breaking her is easy enough. Do you want her useful afterwards?"

"Useful is preferable."

"Then -- and I say this as an interrogator trying to accomplish a specific task, not as an impertinent servant trying your patience -- move back to the door and allow me to work undistracted."

"I am surprised you find me a distraction. The only rumors about your preferences are that you have none." He chuckles. She feels rather than hears it. "You choose your confidences wisely, Judge Drace."

"You asked me for this favor, Lord Vayne. Was it merely a ploy to learn if I would be a willing partner for your bed?" She grinds against him. It's lewd, and it makes her keenly aware of her own arousal. Too much more of this and she might be willing to take Vayne even though she has no honest desire for him.

No. That won't do. She is Lord Larsa's servant.

Vayne laughs, burying his face in her hair to muffle the sound. "Forgive me. I allowed your impressive display to get the better of me." He squeezes her hip, lets go, and rises.

The sudden withdrawal of his body heat makes her want to shiver. She refuses. Instead, she twists to make note of the time. Four more hours to go. She's surprised the Fates are being so generous with her. She would not have been surprised to learn only four hours had passed. The dark is not kind to perception.

"Please continue," he murmurs, and while she cannot see much, she can note the outline of his form, his formal bow. Then he shifts so he's standing between her and the candle.

She turns her back to him and forces all of her attention to the prisoner. She will break this woman. She will need release afterwards. She will not seek it with Vayne.

But she may recall the heat of his hand on her hip, the press of him against her, his breath on her neck, her ear. And she may recall the sound of him now, his breath shallow and raw, heavy with the need they both feel. And she will certainly recall the mew of their prisoner, the note of uncertainty creeping into her voice as she repeats her chosen name -- Ashe, Ashe, Ashe.

Yes. She will recall the young woman. Amalia. Drace will remake _her_. She, Drace, will not be remade into one of Vayne's hounds. She is Lord Larsa's, and he will need her to be at her most cunning in the coming weeks. No matter how long Vayne observes her, no matter how long he stands between her and her measure of time, her anchor, she will remember who, and what, she is.

It is the only outcome that will protect Lord Larsa. Therefore, it is the only outcome she can allow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [By Any Other Word](https://archiveofourown.org/works/172623) by [Lassarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina)




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